


Two Years

by wanderer (kassy_syd)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Backpack, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Canon Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Mid-Credits Scene, Diary/Journal, Embedded Images, Epistolary, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Photographs, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Feels, Travel, Travelogue, World Travel, those two years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassy_syd/pseuds/wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after the fall of Hydra, Bucky woke up alone and confused. With no memory of who he is or why he's hiding in a remote village just over the Russian border, but knowing that he has to run. Scared and all alone, he filled notebooks with letters and photographs for a man he can't remember but whose name has been burned into his mind. Letters to Steve...<br/>---</p><p>"The letter was waiting for Steve when he got back from the cryogenic suite, eyes still red and sore, his nerves frayed and exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep an aching weight in his bones. It sits innocently on his side table atop a stack of notebooks, the distinctive old-fashioned style of writing, so familiar and yet so strange on the clean modern paper. Bucky hadn't signed it but Steve knew immediately who it was from."</p><p>With photographs from my own years on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Years

**Author's Note:**

> We know that Bucky had two years of freedom. Imagine that he spent them wandering this brilliant world, down roads that lead nowhere and anywhere. We know that finally in Bucharest they found him, violence and fear returned, and all of it came crashing horrifically down. But this isn’t that story. We know how that one ends. This is the story of before and after then, of a lost man travelling and finding himself, rediscovering what was and learning who he can be now. This is also the story of Steve learning to love all over again. 
> 
> All the photos included are mine. I took them, so please respect that and don’t copy them without permission. 
> 
> \---  
> A.K.A: Bucky's epic overland voyage illustrated with real photos from the road.

 

 

 

_The letter was waiting for Steve when he got back from the cryogenic suite, his eyes still red and sore, nerves frayed and exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep an aching weight in his bones. It sits innocently on his side table atop a stack of notebooks, the distinctive old-fashioned style of writing, so familiar and yet so strange on the clean modern paper. Bucky hadn't signed it but Steve knew immediately who it was from._

 

 

29/10/16     5:12

Steve,  

These notebooks are yours. ~~I wrote them for you…No, I didn’t.~~ I wrote them to you, for me. But, you gotta read them anyway. 

I'm so sorry that I didn't explain, there isn't time anymore and it hurts too much to tell you face to face. I don't know when I started writing to you, I'm pretty sure I ripped out and burnt the earliest ones, I can't remember but I think I wrote to you the whole time. I knew I wanted to share it all with you. I took pictures too, was so scared I wouldn’t remember again. I wanted you to know, wanted you with me. Even when I didn’t know anything, I knew that.

This was first time I slept through the night, on the deck of ship crossing the Caspian Sea. At dusk it was so quiet and I could see in every direction, far out to fuel pumping platforms burning bright in the sinking light. Steve, I wanted you with me then, in every moment, I didn't know who you were but I wanted you there, I just didn't know who you were.

I’m sorry.

I'm sorry that we had to little time, I'm sorry that I couldn't let you find me sooner. I'm so sorry that this happened to us. 

But you gotta remember, I slept well that night on petrol tanker reeking of fumes and rust. Remember that I got many nights under the stars as I crossed this brilliant world and I took you with me the whole time. 

_He stares down at the notebooks, hope and desperation clawing at his insides, ripping the breathe from his chest. He can't help but stare down in wonder, in fear of what he might learn, what he might discover._

_They're are fastened together neatly in piles of four, cheap lined pages bursting with photos and busy with words. Each one numbered in almost too careful handwriting like he was scared he’d forget their order. He picks up the_ _first , it's in a terrible condition, much worse than the rest. About half of its pages have been torn out and the ones which remain are covered in scrawling, confused words. Every few pages a photo has been stapled to the paper, several others have been ripped or fallen out and are simply tucked into the folds._

_He flicks through it quickly and is relieved to find it all written in clear if oddly basic English. He doesn’t recognise the handwriting. It’s nothing like Bucky’s clever hand, all quick curls and long loops. No, the writing here speaks only of confusion, with one page covered in sharp scratching letters and the next careful childlike print. Some pages he pressed too hard, pushing holes in the paper while others are so gently placed as to be barely legible._

_Steve doesn’t know what to make of it._

_But he sits himself down and purposefully takes a breath before reading.  Whatever it says, he reminds himself, whatever you read, remember that he survived. He’s here and he’s safe._

_Steve eases back the cover, forcing himself to face it._

 

 

 

6/6/14    14:22 

~~Steve Rogers~~

~~Captain Rogers~~

~~Captain America~~

~~Stevie~~

~~Jerk~~

 

Steve?

I don’t know how I got here.

I don’t know where I am.

But I’ve gotta tell you everything, it’s important that you know.

But I don’t know anything... why don’t I know?

Who are you?

 

It’s cold here and I can hear people speaking outside, down on the street below. I don’t...it doesn’t sound right, but I can understand them, they’re not speaking of anything important, they’re old men, sitting watching a dog play with a stick. The street is made of dirt. I know that but I don’t know how, I don’t remember getting here but I know the street is muddy outside. Stevie, I’m scared to go outside.

 

I don’t know who I am.

Why is your name the only thing that’s clear? Who are you? Why do you have so many names? Why do I remember all of yours and none of mine?

 

Who am I?

 

I’ve got this book, but the earlier pages are missing, they’ve been ripped out. They’ve been burnt in the fireplace across the room. Did I do that? Did I burn them?

 

Wait. No. It hurts! Tastes of copper, flashes of light and my head hurts. I don’t want to think of that anymore. It makes my head hurt too much.

I won’t, I promise I won’t!

 

The men have stopped watching, I think the dog has run off. But they’re laughing about something, sharing a drink, I can hear the glasses clinking together. They’re drinking Chacha, they’ll be drunk soon, it’s strong, made at home, burns on the way down. How do I know that?

 

I’m in a dark small room, it’s old, really really old. The wire for the light is on the outside of the wall. There is a bed, I’m sitting on it. And I have a bag of gear with me.

I already know what’s in it without looking. How do I know that?

 

It’s got three changes of clothes, two concealed pistols (why do I desperately want a sniper rifle?), two nano masks and coding gear, eight passports, first aid kit and lots of medication, a box of dry crackers, a block of cheese, a bag of jerky, two bottles of water and spare filtration kits, six boxes of bullets, gloves and hat, three more notebooks, twelve pens, twenty two credit cards (various names), sixteen preloaded money cards (how do I know the pins?), 32300USD and 1200GEL.There is also a digital camera and pocket printer, it’s designed to print on any paper, to almost never run out of ink. I bought those two for you, I know I did, I want to show you what I see. I want you to remember with me. I need you to know.

 

Steve?

Why am I writing to you? Who are you?

 

My head hurts, it hurts real bad Stevie. I think I’m gonna lie down now. I think I’

 

_Steve closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at the pages anymore, doesn’t want to face it. He knows you, he reminds himself, he knows you and he remembers, this already happened. It happened more than two years ago, he’s safe now._

_Steve feels it too, almost physically, more than physical, echoing out from the pages. That pain, so bad he couldn’t keep writing. The confusion. Steve wants to slam the book down, throw it out. He wants to hide the evidence, he wants to hurt someone._

_He wants to burn it._

_But instead he looks outside, across the forest and tries to hear the birds calling to each other in the mist. He clenches and unclenches his hands a few times. He stands and stretches his back and takes a drink of water._

_Then he sits back down and with the gentlest possible touch opens back up the pages and wills himself to read._

 

6/6/14   17:22

Steve?

It’s quiet now. Someone left food outside the door. A sort of round cheese bread and some soup, some dumplings. It’s good. I know it’s safe to eat. I don’t know why.

This is the view outside. The old men have gone. I think it’s safe now.

I know I need to go outside. I know I need to be polite to the lady who owns this house. I have to put on a thick Russian accent and apologize for the short notice of my stay, for not hearing her knock when she brought the food. I know how to be charming.  How to make her forgive me.

 

I can see her chatting to her neighbor through the other window. She’ll come in soon. I’ve got to go now. I can already feel the smile making it’s way onto my face, I can feel the change in my voice...

  
  


6/6/15    21:34

Mestia, Svaneti, Georgia

 

Steve,

I know where I am now.

I remember hitchhiking through the mountains, getting dressed in Russian military fatigues and walking across an almost deserted border to the north. Steve, I remember cracking a joke with a group of soldiers about the Georgian women.

 

 

 

I don’t remember why.

But I know where I am and I shouldn’t be here.

 

They fought here, long ago. All of them trying to keep their families safe from invasion, from war, from bickering neighbours, from the world. They built forts above their houses, they built safety around themselves and they kept fighting. They fought until everyone had built a tower. Every house, every family that could afford it.

 

They’re still here. They’re still standing. They survived.

Steve, I remember this place. I don’t know why I was here but I remember the wind leaching cold into my bones as I lay high up on one of these towers. I remember resting a long range rifle on the hard roof tiles and watching a man celebrate his daughter's wedding through the scope. I let him stumble out drunk on local wine, clinging to the side of an old barn as he vomited.

 

I shot him with a tranc dart and waited for him to collapse.Then dumped him face first in the river at the bottom of the valley. I waited till he stopped trying to breathe before leaving. Once he was dead, I climbed into a van waiting back along the road out.

 

I left him there to be found in the morning.  I don’t know why.

No one knew I was ever here. I’ll leave soon. I shouldn’t be here.

 

I shouldn’t have come.

 

 

_Steve shudders at the photo of the icy waters running down from such picturesque mountains. Bucky must have walked out of town and down the the bridge to take it, to show Steve exactly where he did it._

_He can almost picture Bucky, lying out in the dark night, suffering and waiting to kill. Waiting to murder and not knowing why, hurting and obedient._

_That beautiful town celebrating a rare night of joy in the cold of winter and having to face the loss of a father, only realizing as dawn broke and Hydra long gone, no explanation as to why he had to die. They’ll probably never know the truth. Never even know he was murdered._

 

6/7/14    2:51

Steve,

I have to leave. I know now. I killed a man. I’m sorry.

Why did I do it? I’m sorry.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry.

 

6/7/14  4:46

Steve?

I still don’t know who you are but everytime I write your name, every time I think of you the screaming in my head and the invisible wound in my chest quiet a little.

 

Steve

Steve

Steve.

God it hurts!

 

Please, tell me what’s going on!

Help me understand.

 

6/7/14   7:45  

Steve,

I’m going to Tbilisi.

Got out of there on a truck before dawn.

  
  


I know I have to keep moving. Can’t go where they expect me to go. They’re after me, I have to keep moving. I don’t know who they are but they’ll make me kill again.

 

I’m not going to let them. Somehow, I know you’ll hate me for this and I’m sorry but I’m not going back to them. I’ll end myself first, I’ll end them too if I can. But you’ve gotta know, I can’t let them find me.  

 

I can’t let anyone find me.

 

Not even you.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first illustrated fic. How did I do? Too many pics, not enough? Too big, too small? Also, I'm looking for a beta anyone interested?
> 
> P.S What did you think of the story so far?


End file.
